The Center Cannot Hold
by papermachine
Summary: An epidemic of internal part failures plagues Cybertron and a company offers a component-financing program. Repossession Enforcers visit those who default on payments. For Enforcer Prowl, it was just another job. For Jazz, it was a flight for his life.
1. Things Fall Apart I

_Full summary:_

_An epidemic of internal part failures plagues Cybertron, a lingering vestige of the Great War. A company pioneers a component-financing program and Repossession Enforcers visit those who default on their payments._

_For Enforcer Prowl, it was just another job._

_For Jazz, it was a flight for his life._

_Meanwhile, dissent is growing in the general populace; Cybertron cannot continue to function as it has been. The tipping point is near._

_Jazz has to know where he stands, when things fall apart._

* * *

><p>The light blue mech scurried down the alleyway between two buildings. He was wide-opticed and his movements jerky and panicky. Trembling, he pressed his frame against the side of a waste receptacle.<p>

A breem or two passed in silence and the rapid sparkbeat within his chassis slowed. Shuttering his optics, he vented deeply as he released his hydraulics from their primed status.

'Flicktread,' a voice intoned from the darkness around him.

He froze, his intake vents hitching in fear.

A mech of the black and white paintjob of MechTech stepped into view, slender doorwings swept high in a predatory manner.

'I am from MechTech.'

'Oh no. Please, I can pay. I just need a few more orns. I- I- I want a credit extension!' Flicktread warbled desperately, trying to inch away from the Enforcer.

Gold optics regarded him from an expressionless faceplate.

'I apologise; that is not my department. I am a Component Repossession Enforcer and the payments for your primary fuel pump are past due. I am simply here to reclaim it.'

'You can't do that! I'll deactivate!' he cried in horror, both his servos clutching protectively at his chestplate.

The mech canted his head slightly. 'You may pass on your concerns to the Feedback and Complaints Department.'

'Frag you!' Fuelled by desperation and anger, the mech snarled and launched himself at the larger mech. His servos were outstretched, instinctively targeting the sensory panels on the other mech's back.

The Enforcer dodged Flicktread's attack smoothly before using one servo to strike at the base of the other mech's spinal strut. His clawed servo shredded through the metal plating and gripped a fistful of wires and secondary support struts. With a sharp twist, the struts shattered in his grip and then the Enforcer yanked, ripping out neural relay wires.

Flicktread crashed to the ground on his front, paralysed but still online. His cooling fan grinded noisily in his chestplate, catching on the internal edges of the injury dealt to him. He cried out, but the only sound he succeeded in producing was a staticky whine that stuttered and then cut out completely.

The Enforcer used the tip of his pede to flip Flicktread onto his back. He stared down and considered the incapacitated mech at his pedes before pulling a datapad out of subspace.

'Flicktread, in accordance of the contract you have entered into with MechTech, your internal components not on credit with the company will now be harvested to balance your accounts. On behalf of MechTech, I would like to thank you for your patronage. Please be assured that your generously donated components will be used to aid future customers of MechTech.'

He subspaced the datapad and knelt beside the mech. The Enforcer carefully undid the clasps on the sides of Flicktread's chestplate, ignoring the wild and fearful looks of the other mech. He ran a quick scan of the Gamma grade systems, calculating the credit estimate for the various internal components and comparing that to what the mech owed the company. The Enforcer would have to take everything, and even then it was still insufficient to cover all of the mech's debts. When he told Flicktread so, the mech's ventilating vents spasmed.

He pulled out a laserscalpel and Flicktread offlined his optics.

'Till All are One.'

The Enforcer got to work, dissembling the frame and systems one by one.

* * *

><p><strong>THINGS FALL APART I<strong>

The silver mech cycled slowly out of recharge. He lay on the berth for a moment, staring at the dull grey of his ceiling. He carefully went through the results of his full system scans, as he did every time he awoke from recharge. It was something of a ritual.

The uncomfortable knot of apprehension only loosened when his scans reported that all systems were functioning within normal parameters.

Jazz vented deeply before hauling himself upright.

One orn he knew he was going to find scan results that showed less than optimal working conditions, that something somewhere inside of him had finally decided to start malfunctioning. And then a little while after that, something else would decide to give too. And then another. One after another, his components would succumb to the virus. It was inevitable.

Worrying about that looming future seemed pointless. All mechs ended up there eventually. And until such a time, Jazz would do his best to keep going - keep up with his scans, his work, his routine - to be that gear that keeps on turning and turning in a tight circle but never going anywhere.

It made him want to scream most times.

He made his way into his tiny washrack and began his ablutions. When he was dried, he brought out his tin of wax and applied a small amount to his plating, take care to use the substance sparingly.

Waxing and polishing done, Jazz critically studied himself in the reflective surface of his mirror, checking the alignment of his plating. The brow ridges above his blue optics were furrowed. He smoothed out his faceplate and settled into an easy grinning expression.

He almost believed the carefree nature of his own appearance.

Turning abruptly from his reflection, he checked the contents of his subspace for the vibroblade he carried for personal safety. Crime rates were on the rise and had heard disturbing rumours of desperate mechs doing terrible things.

Whatever the Senate have been saying, Cybertron was far from any Golden Age. Repetitions of that false assurance would not make it any truer.

He locked the door to his flat with a short burst of code and made his way out of his housing complex. Once on the streets, he transformed into his wheeled alt mode and made his way to the place of his employment. He pulled up outside of The Tempered Turbine and took a quick moment to brush off the light coating of dust he had picked up on his journey.

The other mechs inside the pub were already busy setting up for the night cycle. Jazz smiled and waved at a few of them before making his way up the stage to perform a sound check. His attention towards his equipment was drawn away when he heard a startled exclamation and the noisy clatter of a mech's frame hitting the ground.

Jazz immediately abandoned his console and jumped off the stage. He knelt by the fallen mech.

'Hey, ya all right there, mech?' Jazz asked, concerned.

Cranktop waved him away. 'Yeah, jus' tripped is all.'

Jazz's gaze narrowed as the other mech picked himself up.

'C'mon, Crank. What's really wrong?'

'What isn't?' muttered Cranktop, not looking at the silver mech. Then he vented and rubbed a servo over his faceplate tiredly. The larger mech lowered himself carefully onto one of the seats at a table and Jazz could hear groaning of gears and the hiss of struggling hydraulics. He slipped into the seat opposite his friend. Wordlessly, Cranktop unsubspaced an electronic chip and held it out to Jazz, his servo shaking slightly. He wouldn't meet Jazz's optics.

Already, Jazz could feel the dread squeezing his fuel pump even as he hesitantly accepted the chip. He accessed the filed within and couldn't help but recoil slightly.

'Crank… is this…?' he started hoarsely, but was unable to finish.

'Yeah, it is. Final notice for my overdue account.' Cranktop chuckled, but there wasn't any humour in it. He didn't seem bitter about it either, merely resigned.

'Primus… How much do ya owe them?'

'An arm and a leg,' Cranktop joked weakly and then quickly sobered when he saw the expression on Jazz's faceplate. He vented again and looked away. 'A lot, Jazz. More than I can pay off by tomorrow.'

'How much?' insisted the smaller mech. 'I have some spare credits, and I'd be glad ta help ya out and-'

Cranktop shook his head, interrupting his friend. 'Keep it. You had better keep your own credits to save your own aft in later orns. Trust me, you're gonna need it, sooner or later.'

'But-'

'But nothing. Listen, Jazz; the virus took my energon filters, processor cores, half of my motor relay systems and four of my transformation cogs. The cybonix really messed me up real bad and I would have already fallen to pieces if it wasn't for MechTech. As it is, I am incredibly grateful to them for letting me function a little longer.'

'We shouldn't have to be living like this!' Jazz burst out angrily. The other mechs in the pub paused in their work to glance over, then returned to their work. 'Scrapping and cannibalising each other like we are right now. Primus. This is _sick _and it's _wrong_.'

Cranktop shrugged and looked away uncomfortably. 'It is the way of our world. The Well keeps us all.'

'Don't you dare throw that fragging MechTech tagline at me,' snarled Jazz savagely. 'That's a lump of fragged up molten slag and you know it.'

Cranktop stared sadly at his friend. 'Stop it, Jazz,' he said quietly, his vocaliser crackling with static. 'It's all I have right now. If I don't have at least this to believe in, then I don't think I can stand it. I am fragging scared but I'm _trying_ to accept this. It is some comfort to think that at least some other bots might live a little longer with my parts.'

Jazz stared at his friend, spark clenching painfully until he found he was unable to hold the gaze any longer. He relented.

'Till All are One,' he muttered hollowly, looking away.

He didn't see the sad smile that flitted briefly across Cranktop's faceplate. 'Till All are One,' he affirmed gently.

Jazz left the table, subdued. He resumed his audio check on stage and when the turmoil in his chassis had settled somewhat, he glanced up to see that Cranktop was already back to work and was helping to carry crates of high grade to stock the bar. Cranktop dumped his load and shared a few words with the barmech and the two laughed. Optics crinkled with mirth, Cranktop turned and locked gazes with Jazz.

He faltered and the cheerful expression slipped somewhat. The amused twinkle in his optics faded and he looked faintly pleading.

Jazz could not find it within himself to deny his friend. He flashed a grin and a wink and flipped the switch on his audio mixers, startling some mechs with the volume of his music. The other mechs started cursing him and somebot threw an empty energon cube at his head. Jazz laughed, turning the volume down.

Cranktop was smiling with genuine happiness; all he wanted was to spend his last few cycles surrounded by friends, feeling normal.

::Thank you:: Cranktop commed him. Jazz flashed him an easy smile and suddenly remembered the joors he had spent in front of his mirror perfecting this very same expression. His spark clenched painfully and he ducked his helm to hide his faceplate, pretending to study the various settings on his console.

Later that cycle, when The Tempered Turbine was in full swing, Jazz dedicated an audio code stream to the mech he considered his sparkbrother. After, Cranktop had approached him and clasped him tightly on the shoulder.

'My brother,' he breathed quietly, too overcome to say much more. Jazz merely nodded. There were things he wanted to say to Cranktop, but knew the other mech didn't want to hear. So Jazz merely gritted his denta to prevent an angry outburst of vulgar swearing directed at MechTech that would undoubtedly upset his gentle friend.

They never brought up the matter between them again after that.

A few cycles later, Cranktop did not turn up for work. Through the hushed conversations between the other Gamma mechs working in The Tempered Turbine, Jazz learned that the Enforcers had paid a visit to Cranktop.

There was nothing left of Cranktop now, not a bolt nor a scrap of wire. It was as if Cranktop had never been, so thoroughly dismantled from physical existence.

Jazz felt hollowed out and yet snapping with restlessness. The fact there was _nothing_ physical left of Cranktop filled him with anger, as if he had been robbed of the ability to grieve properly for a lost friend.

He approached his employer and told him he wasn't up to performing that night. He had turned on the heel of his pede and left before Springload could formulate a reply.

Springload pinged his commline. Jazz slammed his commlinks off. Grinding his denta together and his energy fields fluctuating with his emotions, Jazz was too distressed to even consider transforming into his alt form to drive. Instead, he walked. He shut down his positioning systems, blindly picked a direction and headed off with stiff jerky steps. He took random corners, inattentive and uncaring of where he was going.

Eventually, the choking grief and anger abated, leaving him tired and dull. Jazz shook his helm, grimacing. He glanced around and found himself in the part of the city he recognised from crime reports.

He took in the empty streets and hesitated, feeling suddenly apprehensive. He activated his positioning systems but found them unable to pinpoint his location; either the satellites were having technical difficulties again, or he was being jammed. Trying not to panic, he attempted to retrace his route out of the less than savoury neighbourhood.

'Psst!'

Jazz jumped and whirled on the spot, glancing wildly about for the source of the noise.

'Over here!' hissed a mech, tucked just inside a dark alley. The red mech was beckoning him with a flapping servo.

Jazz glanced about before warily approaching the mech. As he neared, the mech retreated a few steps further into the dark space.

'You do look glum!' the other mech commented. 'What you need is a unit of Zyrgonate.'

Jazz stiffened immediately and glared coldly at the mech. 'No, thank you.'

The other mech seemed undeterred by the rejection and shifted his weight from pede to pede. 'Everyone needs a bit of Zyrgonate to brighten their cycle. Primus knows we need a holiday from this living Pit.'

Jazz said nothing in reply.

'Evil's just an unreality if you take half a unit… Half a unit and you'll float away from your anxieties, swathed in a warm haven, richly coloured and infinitely friendly,' the mech continued enticingly. He waited for a moment for a response and received none. 'You look like you need it,' he said bluntly, trying for another tactic.

Anger and annoyance fused Jazz's systems and he balled his fists. Then, just as quickly as the roiling emotions came, it dissipated. Jazz's shoulders slumped and he looked away from the dealer.

'Look mech,' huffed the mech impatiently. 'You want it or not?'

'How much?' Jazz found himself asking.

The mech told him.

'What! You extortionist!' cried the silver mech, angry again.

The other mech held up his servos defensively. 'Believe me; I'm cutting half of my profits as it is.'

The mech suddenly frowned and leaned in closer to squint at Jazz, who leaned away warily.

'Hey, aren't you the code meister at The Tempered Turbine?'

Startled, Jazz stared at him with his mouth slightly agape.

'You are!' cried the mech exuberantly, without waiting for a reply. He was nodding to himself and grinning. 'Jazz, right? My designation's Undercut, by the way. I come in sometimes with my friend to see you perform. Listen, because I'm such a fan, I'll give you another vial of Zyrgonate; buy one get one free. And..! I'm throwing in this Zyr-gun; you'll need it to administer the stuff.'

As he spoke, Undercut pulled out two vialed of glowing blue liquid and brandished a pneumatic gun.

'The little glass vial here goes into the gun like so. Just put it against any one of your main energon line – I suggest the ones near your neck cables.'

He assembled the device, held it up to his own neck and mimed pulling the trigger. 'And when the gun goes off, you'll see sparks… literally and figuratively.' He winked and pushed the items into Jazz's unresisting servos.

Jazz shifted his gaze from the objects in his hands to the grinning expectant face of Undercut. Feeling caught off-pede, he slowly subspaced everything and pulled out a creditchip. He authorised the credit amount and handed it to the mech, who took it and subspaced it immediately.

The red mech shook his hand.

'Pleasure doing business with you.'

Jazz remained silent as he watched Undercut touched the blade of his hand to his forehelm in a lazy mock salute before lopping away. Halfway down the alley, Undercut paused briefly. A shadow detached itself from a hidden niche in the wall and moved to stand next to him. It was another mech. After what seemed to be a short conference, the two mechs – one red and the other yellow – turned simultaneously to glance at Jazz. Undercut grinned cheerfully and offered a small wave. The other mech merely stared expressionlessly. Then in perfect synchronisation, the two turned away and left.

Somehow, Jazz managed to find his way back to his flat. By the time he reached home, he was exhausted and the processors felt sluggish. He stood in the middle of his living area and unsubspaced the Zyr-gun and the spare vial of Zyrgonate. He stared down at the items in his hands. He wasn't sure why he felt uncomfortable just holding the items or quite why he had bought them in the first place. He vented and turned to the place in the wall where he kept his valuables, hidden behind a removable wall panel.

Sealing the hiding place, he turned to the small transmissions console he owned and switched it on. He went to grab himself a cube of low grade as he listened to the evening broadcast. Sipping his drink, he realised he was catching the start of a program; an interview with Senator Ratbat. The host Radiac was warming up to the interview.

'Good evening, friends. This is a very special program indeed for the next orn will mark our three hundredth vorn of independence. We are a great people now, living in a Golden Age but we must never forget that our happiness now was hard earned and hard fought for.

We no longer have records from before the Quintesson Oppression, this is true – the Quintessons had wiped our history archives from our databases. They had erased our identities and then sought to write our futures. They made us slaves. And with each generation of Cybertronians, we grew more distant from the memory of freedom, until we could not even process that terribly beautiful idea in our minds.

But deep in our sparks we knew. We knew we were meant for something more than just servitude, something much greater. Our sparks burned fever bright for a freedom we had forgotten.

Three hundred vorns ago, we fought against our slavers for our freedom. The Great Revolution. It was a desperate battle and countless brave sparks were returned to the Well… but we were _winning_. Astroinch by astroinch, we reclaimed our lands. Cybertron for Cybertronians. And in the last vorns of the Revolution, the Quintessons had no choice but to accept their imminent loss of control over us. We would take no more abuse passively.

So they struck, determined to subdue us once more. They crippled our planet, burning our cities and poisoning us with a terrible virus of their creation. Our main energon wells were infected with Cybonic. Within an orn, thousands of mechs, femmes and sparklings had become infected with the deadly virus, their internal parts ceasing to work and their frames rejecting their sparks.

And yet we persevered, pushing our failing frames and guttering sparks to the very brink of extinguishment, for the right to freedom.

And we _won_ – we were _free_.

But our sufferings were not over yet; the Cybonic virus continued to raze through frames. We were close to finding a cure when the virus mutated.

But it was a Primus sent blessing; the new Cybonic-X strain – or Cybonix as it has since been called – works through our systems much, much slower than the original virus. However, it is no less virulent; I'm infected, you're infected, _everyone's_ infected!'

Jazz settled back into his seat. Really, he thought, Radiac was far too cheerful when discussing the dire state of health of their populace.

Through the transmission console speakers, Radiac continued. 'So came our saviour MechTech. MechTech offered component-financing; offering replacement parts for our malfunctioning cybonix ridden components.

Mech and gentle femmes, allow me to introduce Senator Ratbat, managing director of the MechTech Company and esteemed member of the Senate.'

Another voice filtered through the speakers, his tone much lower and mellower than the previous one. 'Good evening, Cybertron. This is Senator Ratbat.'

'Senator, I hear that MechTech has expended its influences even to the Simfur Temple! Why don't you tell our listeners more about it.'

'Really, Radiac,' the mech chuckled. 'You are trying to sensationalise the issue. It is nothing that warrants such attention, I assure you.'

'Can't blame a mech for trying to increase his ratings, Senator.'

'Indeed. Very well. As you well know, the AllSpark is housed within the Temple, guarded by the Temple Guards. The Temple's Director of PCP has approached me with the proposal that the Temple and MechTech share security resources. Director Shockwave has concerns that the number of Guards on the premise is currently insufficient. Both the Guards and my Enforcers are highly skilled, and possess Class One security programming; it made logistical sense to combine the two units.

Logistics aside, MechTech has an established working relationship with the Temple and it is our honour to render such assistance. Of course, MechTech's very principles were built on the spirit of community and unions. The Well keeps us all.'

'Till All are One,' Radiac responded automatically.

'Till All are One.'

Jazz flinched, remembering the conversation he had with Cranktop. He gripped his energon cube tighter.

There was a pause before Radiac continued his interview.

'Tell us more about the new component-financing plans; are they just rumours?'

'MechTech is currently revising some aspects of the component-financing plans for the Alpha and Beta castes.'

'What about for the other castes?'

'While the Gamma and Delta castes make up the larger portion of our customers, based on customer feedback, it seems most customers of that demographic find our services and pay-back schemes satisfactory-'

Unable to listen any longer and his engine revving in anger, Jazz launched himself from his seat and violently slammed the switch on the transmission console to turn it off. He stood there, glaring down at the device.

"_Pay-back schemes satisfactory."_

Jazz snorted in disgust.

The interest rates MechTech imposed on their loan schemes were nothing short of exorbitant. But it was either MechTech and their high interest rates and swift and punishing policies on defaulters, or the resignation to suffer multiple hardware and system failures before eventually spluttering into deactivation.

Jazz wasn't sure if Cybertronians now were that much better off than living under Quintesson rule. They were still trapped in a cyclical pattern; mechs sparked and functions marked, even before their sparks were placed into their first frames. Base programs and coding were installed according to the needs of their predestined lives.

Jazz felt his lip plates curl into a terrible sneer.

Alpha to Epsilon, cybonix didn't care what caste you came from. It wasn't biased in its favour; it infected everyone.

Cybonix isn't quick and it isn't merciful. It was a terrible and lingering way to go and everyone is afraid of the excruciating deactivation by the virus. Between the choice of life and death – even if it's a life lived on expensive borrowed MechTech components – when it comes right down to it, it is not a choice. Not really. No one chooses not to choose life.

Jazz knew the choice he would take one cycle. He hated it, fought against the idea of it. But he also knew he was too terrified of the alternative. Thoughts of the Well of All Sparks did not comfort him.

So he would choose MechTech, just so he could stretch out his existence on this plane a little longer. He would sign the fragging contracts because he was too afraid to die. And he would get the badly needed component on loan. It will be a struggle to pay back those schemes. And in the end – like all other mechs before him – one cycle he would miss his payment.

A warning notice would be delivered.

_Dear patron Jazz,  
>Your payments are past due.<em>

He'd have 90 cycles after that before the final notice came. Then a visit by the Enforcers and Jazz's spark would have no choice but to depart for the Well, having been evicted from its housing in his chassis.

"The Well keeps us all."

In the end, it is MechTech that keeps most of us; every harvested nut and bolt and gear and chain.

"Till All are One."

Are we are not already One? Mechs are walking around made up of bits cobbled together from other mechs. Where does All end and One begin?

Jazz jerked in surprise when the empty cube in his servo shattered in his clenched fist. He stared at the shards and then snarled, fisting his servo. The shards crumbled into sharp splinters. They slipped in between his plating and sliced motor relays and nicked minor energon lines. The pain and discomfort wasn't enough to ground him.

He flung his servo open and shook it a few times to dislodge the smaller pieces of the broken cube. Then he was on his pedes, stalking towards the panel in the wall before he consciously knew what he was doing. The Zyr-gun was in his servos. He turned it over several times, tracing the trigger. Lip plates pressed into a firm line, he turned the dial up to two units instead of its default half a unit. He pressed the tip of the gun against his neck cable and denying himself the time to reconsider his actions, pulled the trigger.

There was a jolt of shock as the energised substance hit his systems and he shuddered involuntarily with pleasure, dropping the pneumatic gun. His processors were soon overloaded with streams of numbing false data, inducing a feeling of warm hazy bliss. A burst of static escaped his vocals; he was no longer able to form any sort of coherent thought or words. He sank slowly to his knees, swaying from side to side. In his audios, rang the choir of a thousand audio code streams. He titled his helm backwards. For the first time in vorns, he forgot all his worries and the edges of his faceplates relaxed and there was a happy contented smile on his lips.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: This is going through a bit of editing and re-writing. (09 May 2013)<p>

Inspired by a medley of various media, the events of this story takes place back on Cybertron and explores the alternate events that had started the Great War between the Autobot and Decepticons.

With references to and riffing off works such as V for Vendetta, 1984, Trainspotting, Repo Men, Brave New World, Repo! The Genetic Opera, Equilibirum.


	2. Things Fall Apart II

**THINGS FALL APART II**

The first thing Jazz noticed when he cycled into awareness was the noise; there was too much of it. His receptors were generating negative feedbacks in response to every sensory input, which in turn created a flood of error logs.

Shaking, Jazz huddled tighter into himself, shuttering his optics tighter.

Jazz forced-stopped the logging process and felt relief wash through his processors at the sudden stillness within his own helm. He purged the data logs and lay on the berth unmoving. Gradually, the disorientation and audial hypersensitivity lessened, leaving behind the dull throb similar to the worst hangover in the universe.

When he finally managed to uncurl himself a few clicks later, fighting the post-Zyrgonate nausea.

He shifted to lie on his back and started a system scan, noting that he had neglected to initiate one the night cycle before. He waited patiently for the results, cycling air through his vents while his optics remained shuttered.

He must have drifted off into recharge again because he was startled awake when his internal chronometer chimed for midday. The heavy-helm feeling was still there in the background, hampering his processors.

It took him a long moment of staring at his ceiling before he frowned. He knew every line and crack in the surface, knew them with such familiarity having studied them every time he cycled out of recharge. And yet now he felt something missing. He studied the patterns again, optics tracing the lines and comparing it to his memory files. Everything was the same, his pattern recognition software insisted, and yet Jazz felt otherwise. Something had changed, something was different. It was as if the sensations he had experienced through the haze of Zyrgonate had somehow made things now seem lacking and less real than they had been before.

Jazz flicked to the results of his system scans and perused them absently, still contemplating the expanse of the ceiling.

He pushed himself upright on the berth and glanced around him.

The strange _lacking_ quality had permeated the rest of the room, infecting it.

Unnerved, Jazz swung his pedes to the floor. He took a few steps before his right pede connected to an object and sent it skittering across the room. It was the Zyr-gun.

Slowly, the silver mech bent to retrieve the item. Vague memories of the night cycle before hovered in his processors, just tantalisingly out of reach. The lack of recall of those joors didn't really concern Jazz; he knew it was what Zyrgonate did – it provided a pleasant buffer between yourself and reality for a little while. Although he couldn't remember exactly what he had experienced, it must have been the nicest he'd felt in a long time and all he could feel now was the disappointment that he had very little recollection of it.

Carefully, Jazz turned the Zyr-gun over in his servos to check for damage. Finding none, he carried it out with him into his main living area. He stashed the gun in the hiding place in the wall and then went to retrieve a small cube of energon for himself.

He leaned against the countertop, sipping the fuel leisurely. It was his cycle off from work. There was nothing down on his schedule for the day, he was completely free. His optics surveyed the small room and Jazz couldn't help but consider that the slight unease he had felt since cycling out from recharge still plaguing him. He took a swig and emptied his cube and tossed it into the trash receptacle.

He rolled his shoulders and rattled his plating, resettling them on his frame in an attempt to physically dislodge his unexplained disquiet. It didn't work.

Bristling with pent up agitation, the silver mech checked his subspace for his vibroblade before stepping out of his flat to go for a drive.

He drove slowly through the streets of Iacon, sensors sweeping his surroundings. He had hoped that whatever strange unsettled feelings he was experiencing would dissipate when he was out of his flat. If anything, it had only increased.

What was it that had changed over the night cycle? Didn't the other bots feel it; the invisible crushing weight of... of whatever it was. It was oppressing, smothering and dominating and Jazz could feel his own intake vents struggling to function suddenly. He faltered, pulling to the side of the street to catch his breath as the temperature of his engines rose several degrees.

The traffic continued to flow around him; mechs and femmes continuing on with their short pre-destined lives. Here, a Delta mech trundled past; his large frame – designed for heavy manual labour – seemed terribly ungainly and ugly in comparison to the Gammas around him. And there, two Beta femmes were cutting gracefully through the traffic; their frames small and streamlined.

They were rushing, all of them, swiftly making their way to their destinations. The streets of Cybertron were always busy.

"_But why? What was the point?" _Jazz wondered darkly. Mechs are sparked, infected, and then they deactivated. Their short miserable lives counted for nothing, so why bother? They were, each of them, a cog in a miserable broken-down machine.

Jazz was overcome with disgust and he revved his engines aggressively. Tires squealing, he peeled out from his spot and raced home. He wove recklessly in and out of traffic, ignoring the angry yells when he came in too close to other mechs and accidentally clipped them in the sides.

He transformed when he reached his flat and entered his security codes at his door. He was shaking with inner frustration when he stormed into his living area and ripped the wall panel from its place. Reaching into the concealed space, he retrieved the pneumatic gun. His servos were shaking as he fiddled with the settings on the side, turning up the dial to deliver the maximum recommended dose of six Zyrgonate units.

He gripped the gun unsteadily and made his way to his berthroom. He caught sight of his reflection on the surface of his mirror. The burning emptiness in his own dead optics scared him. He had to re-energise himself, his life. Slowly, servos no longer shaking, he brought the Zyr-gun to his neck cables and delivered himself a dose of the opiate.

The heady rush of warm delicious Zyrgonate-induced feelings immediately rolled over his systems. Jazz held his own gaze in the mirror for as long as he could, watching as the terrible empty expression on his faceplates was soothed as his mind embarked for a beautiful lunar eternity.

It would be roughly eighteen joors before he would be lucid enough to be able to feel bothered by everycycle concerns again.

Later, when Jazz awoke again, it was already the next night cycle and he was late for his shift. A wave of nausea hit him as he struggled upright. Jazz gripped the sides of his berth as his gyroscope and orientation modules clashed, sending conflicting data. He groaned miserably and if he had any energon in his tanks, he would have undoubtedly purged. Cycling his intakes heavily, Jazz turned off his optics to reduce the amount of automatic orientation data.

When his tanks had settled, Jazz cursed and shifted off the berth. The Zyr-gun that had been on the berth beside him clattered to the floor and Jazz cringed at the noise. Slowly, gears protesting the movement, Jazz retrieved the gun and stashed it into his subspace alongside his vibroblade.

He staggered to the mirror to give himself a quick once-over and was dismayed to find the grime and scuff marks from yestercycle's venture marring his paint job. However, there wasn't any time for a buff and polish. Cursing again when he checked his chronometer, Jazz hurried out of his flat and hit the streets with his tires squealing.

The Tempered Turbine was already in full swing for the night and it was packed with customers at their tables nursing their high grade. They were growing restless and impatient for the promised entertainment and were looking expectantly towards the empty stage.

Jazz barrelled in, shooting his employer a quick apology when he saw the mech's annoyed expression. The mech already had more than half a dozen complaints from his customers demanding the immediate commencement of the evening's performance.

He wove his way between the tables and leapt onto the stage. His internal fans were whirling noisily, trying to cool his overheated systems from his hurried drive. The fact that he was still feeling the after-effects of Zyrgonate did not help matters, but he quelled the roiling in his tanks the best he could.

Some of the waiting mechs called out impatiently for Jazz to begin. All the silver mech could do was grin reassuringly back at them before ducking his helm again to complete his system set up. There was no time for a broadcast check, not with how restless the crowd was getting and with his employer angrily spitting static over his commline, telling him to get his aft in gear.

Jazz loaded an audio code stream and pumped up the broadcast transfers. The crowd was already roaring their approval at the opening stream of codes. Skilfully, Jazz interwove scripts and counterpoints into the stream, coaxing the audio code into a soaring crescendo. At the climax of the piece, Jazz let the coding drift away into blank data feeds. His audience was enraptured, their ventilations caught in anticipation.

The suspense was carefully measured. Jazz pushed them over the edge with a barrage of audio codes, hitting all their frequencies. The audience went wild.

Jazz performed on stage for the rest of the evening, only taking a quick break for a cube of energon before dashing back to the stage. As the nightcycle turned to day, the patrons of The Tempered Turbine slowly filtered out until eventually, the only remaining mechs on the premises were the staff who began to clean up the space.

Jazz was on the stage, carefully putting away his equipment when his boss approached him. Griphaul watched him for a moment before waving a servo to catch Jazz's attention.

'Yeah, boss?'

Griphaul gave him a sympathetic look and Jazz cringed inwardly. 'Listen, I know Cranktop being recalled is hard on ya, but I need ya to understand that I can't have ya skipping work or turning up late,' Griphaul told him firmly but not unkindly.

'If ya need the time off, tell me so I can arrange for some alternative forms of entertainment. Ya leaving me hanging like this is irresponsible. I couldn't even get ya on the comms.'

Jazz clamped his plating tighter to his frame. 'M'sorry, Griphaul. Won't happen again.'

The other mech studied him carefully. 'Do ya need any time off?'

Jazz shook his helm, not meeting the other's gaze. 'No. I was upset. Still am, but...that's the way the system works, innit? Nothin' I can do about it now, anyway.' He reached for a cable and started to coil it for storage. The other mech waited for more but sensed Jazz was reluctant to speak any further on the subject. Griphaul remained for a few more clicks before moving away. Jazz vented, forcing his tensed plating to relax.

It wasn't as if he didn't appreciate the other mech's understanding and sympathy; Jazz just didn't want to talk about it. It was still too painful, too raw. It felt as if his spark was being Sundered. He placed a servo on his chassis, half expecting to feel his spark splintering underneath.

'Hey, Jazz?'

Jazz startled, whirling to find the barmech looking at him with concern. 'Yeah?'

'I called you a couple of times. You seem out of it. You alright, mech?'

Jazz brushed off the mech's concern and hopped off the stage. 'I'm fine. Whaddaya need?'

'You're done right? Help me take out these crates before you leave, will ya?' the mech requested, gesturing to the side. 'Just leave them by the waste receptacles outside.'

The silver mech complied, carting the boxes outside. He took the time to stack the boxes and then he stood there for a moment before resting his back against the waste receptacle. He drew in a deep vent and flicked his optics skyward. It was just the start of the morning cycle and the weak golden light from one of the distant suns had started to touch the edges of the buildings.

A brand new cycle for the same old routines. The heavy weight of helplessness pressed down onto Jazz again and he trembled violently before shuttering his optics. But even then he felt as if the image had been seared into his processors, mocking him with false promises of a better life that was forever out of his reach.

Then, as if on autopilot and his optics still shuttered, he retrieved the pneumatic gun from his subspace. He flicked the dial to deliver half a unit by feel alone. This time the Zyrgonate didn't overwhelm him in a cascade of pleasant feelings. Instead, he felt it stir in his data streams and gently coaxed his bleak thoughts into a more cheerful direction.

He slipped the gun away and remained motionless for a moment, basking in the peace the Zyrgonate generated. Jazz could not remember the last time he had felt so relaxed and centred. He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tight cables underneath and detached himself from the wall.

Jazz decided to take the long route home. As he cruised leisurely along the streets, he suddenly understood the saying "the Pit is better with a unit." Try as he might, Jazz found he could not be more than vaguely distressed about the situation with Cranktop. And even then it was extremely difficult to hold onto that negative emotion as it was tenderly soothed away by the Zyrgonate.

* * *

><p>The light coloured femme sighed again as she shifted to find a more comfortable position in her seat. Idly, she flicked her optics over the screen of her datapad but was in no mood to continue reading. She set it down on the low table beside her and lolled her helm, letting her gaze wander aimlessly around the large expanse of the room.<p>

'You should refuel,' her sparksponsor murmured from behind his desk, intent on the calculations on his own datapad.

'My energy levels are at an adequate level,' she replied lazily.

Alpha-3 said nothing, continuing with his work. A few clicks passed before she sighed again and fidgeted once more in her seat.

'Perhaps some Zyrgon will settle your agitation, dearspark.'

'My systems cannot process anymore of the substance until I have drained out the un-energised Zyrgon.' She winced slightly even as she admitted this.

Her sparksponsor laid down his datapad and glared admonishingly at her. 'Elita! You should be more responsible with your own upkeep. If you cannot perform your own simple maintenance, then the disquiet of your own processor is of no fault but your own. Go filter out your systems immediately and then treat yourself with a unit. Your constant sighing is quite distracting.'

Alpha-3 retrieved his datapad and resumed his work. The femme frowned mulishly at him before heaving a noisy sigh just to further annoy her sparksponsor. When she received no reaction, she made a face and then stood, stretching her arms above her helm. She left the library and made for the privacy of her own room.

She unsubspaced the Zyrgon filter and connected the device to the port in her side with the small tube. She settled onto the edge of her berth and initiated the filtering process, which would take several clicks. Elita tapped her fingers on her knee absently as she waited, listening to the low hum of the filter.

The filter beeped when it was done, drawing her attention. Carefully, she detached the draining tube and closed her port. The empty canister that had been attached to the side of the filter was now filled with the murky blue liquid that was processed Zyrgon.

Elita removed the canister and stood. She carried it with her as she trailed listlessly along the long hallways of her home, making her way slowly to the recycling chute. She deposited the canister into the shaft and then drifted away absently.

Despite her sparksponsor's advice, Elita was reluctant to partake in Zyrgon for the cycle. She found that the temporary contentment that the drug brought only served to make her even more disconsolate after the effects had worn off. Her friends had brushed aside her comments when she had confided in them about her post-Zyrgon unhappiness.

"_What you need, Elita, is a second dose."_

Her aimless wanderings led her to one of the balconies and she leaned her hip against the ornate railings and gazed down onto the streets. She was on one of the lower levels of the Towers, just a few stories above street level. The sounds of Cybertronian engines thrumming filled her audios and she traced the journeys of random mechs and femmes with her optics.

A movement at the corner of her optical sensors caught her attention. She shifted slightly and centred her focus onto a red mech trying to inconspicuously hack the code of the Zyrgon recycling receptacle on the side of The Towers. She canted her helm, a frown on her faceplates.

When Zyrgon had cycled through a mech's systems, it became inert and needed to be filtered out. The processed Zyrgon was deposited at recycling points to be collected by a MechTech shuttle and transported to a plant for re-energising.

Zyrgon could only be created in MechTech labs with expensive equipments and in small quantities, making the process incredibly costly. It was simply much more economical for MechTech to recycle Zyrgon than to produce more of the substance. Zyrgon could be recycled over and over again, without ever losing its properties.

Judging by the furtive way the mech was glancing about himself, he was no recycling official from MechTech. More likely, he was stealing the de-energised drug for illegal reprocessing into street Zyrgonate, a crime punishable by instant deactivation should the mech be caught.

Her optics narrowed and she considered making a report to the Enforcers. No doubt it would be her civic duty.

The production of Zyrgonate was irresponsible and wasteful; after a cycle in a mech's systems, it was rendered permanently inert. Scientists at MechTech have been unable to discover away convert Zyrgonate back into usable Zyrgon.

The mech finally managed to crack the code on the recycling hatch. He reached in and pulled out several canisters. Another mech appeared at his side, keeping a lookout as the first mech started subspacing as many canisters he got his servos on. After a moment, he must have maxed out his subspace limit because wordlessly, they switched places and the yellow mech took his turn loading up.

Elita could not believe her optics at the crime that she was witnessing. The first mech bounced nervously on the heels of his pedes and glanced about. Then, as if sensing Elita's stare, he looked up and their gazes met. The mech jerked in shock and his companion glared sharply at him as if to rebuke him but then followed his gaze to her. Unlike the expression of fright on the other mech, the yellow mech's faceplate settled into something far grimmer.

The femme's sparkpulse rocketed and she scrambled out of sight, back into the safety of The Towers. She pressed her back against the wall. Her fuel pump stuttered with dread and she clutched her shaking servos to her chest. Several clicks and deep breaths later, she mustered enough courage to take a cautious peek around the corner of the wall.

The two mechs were gone and the hatch of the recycling receptacle was still hanging open.

She wasn't sure what she had expected to see but she was certainly wasn't expecting the disappointment that inexplicably flooded her when she found that they had disappeared. She hurried back onto the balcony, leaning over the railings. She casted her gaze frantically about; trying to spot the two mechs but her efforts was in vain. Elita had to concede that the two were probably long gone.

Her optics fell once more to the recycling receptacle hatch that was hanging ajar. She wasn't quite sure why, but she found herself making her way down the lowest floor of The Towers and onto the streets. The recycling receptacle was tucked unobtrusively in an alleyway, away from the busy streets and Elita glanced behind her nervously as she approached. She peered into the hatchway and saw that the receptacle had been emptied of all of its contents. She reached out slowly, fingers brushing the edges of the hatch. A determined expression settled over her faceplates and she shut it firmly.

She turned around and then immediately stumbled backwards until her back met the wall. Her optics widened in panic and a terrified sound escaped her vocaliser.

The two mechs had not left as she had assumed, merely hidden themselves in a large crevice in the wall of the alley. The yellow mech was glowering; a fierce expression on his faceplates while his companion peered over his shoulder looking distinctly worried.

The red mech flapped a servo at her. 'Please don't scream!' he hissed anxiously.

Despite the situation, Elita felt a flare of annoyance. 'I wasn't going to!' she snapped before clapping a servo over her mouthplates, afraid she had angered them.

The mech relaxed a little and flashed her a relieved grin. 'Oh good!' he exclaimed before shouldering the other mech aside. Elita cringed when the other mech growled angrily, but found that his anger was not directed at her, but at the red mech who summarily ignored him.

'My designation is Undercut,' the mech said, smiling reassuringly. His electromagnetic field brushed friendlily against hers. He jerked his helm, indicating the other mech. 'This is my sparkbrother, Uppercut.'

Elita glanced nervously between them when they looked expectantly at her, clearing expecting her to reciprocate similarly with her designation. She hesitated, not wanting to share her true identity because that would only reveal her influential connections.

'Ariel,' she lied finally. 'My designation is Ariel.'

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Thank you for the kind reviews. I appreciate every single one of my readers, even if you are just an anonymous lurkerwatcher.

Edited 20 May 2013.


	3. Things Fall Apart III

Author's Note: I lied. This story is not just about Jazz and Prowl, but also about the lives of the mechs and femmes before Cybertron's civil war. You will be reading a lot about what other characters are doing and about their lives. Jazz and Prowl are an important and central part of the story, but they will come later, so don't get too impatient! :)

Also, if you're a grammar/spelling Nazi, please feel free to point out all my mistakes to me. Proofreading your own stuff isn't exactly the greatest foolproof way to weed out mistakes.

_Intercision –_ a term borrowed from Philip Pullman's _His Dark Materials_ trilogy. Where it was used in his universe to describe a fictional operation to separate a person from his daemon, it is used here for a procedure on Cybertronian sparks.

Thanks for the reviews, **MoonWallker**, **Noella50881**, and **Shunner68**.

**DemonSurfer**, your review was especially delightful; thank you for the feedback. I did reckon Uppercut and Undercut would be easily recognisable enough. And lo! Some new (but recognisable) characters are introduced here in this chapter. :)

**Sideslip**, hope you enjoy the developments in this chapter. There is more going on here than meets the eye. Yes, I threw in that clichéd over-used phrase.

* * *

><p><strong>THINGS FALL APART III<strong>

The mechs at the Tempered Turbine were setting up for business, arranging the seats and wiping down counter tops. Amidst the bustle of activity, the proprietor of the place was seated at a corner table, going over the accounts. He paused and looked up when he heard the door of his bar open and several greetings were called out to the newly arrived mech.

Jazz grinned and returned greetings of his own before loping onto the stage.

Griphaul studied the silver mech, the datapad containing his bar's accounts forgotten on the table before him. Jazz was humming as he tested some audio tracks on the stage; no doubt he was planning to change his set list. The stage lights have yet to be turned on but even in the low ambient lighting, there was something about Jazz that naturally drew the optic. It was more than just the way his polished plating gleamed. Neither was it the easy-going nature he so liked to portray nor the smooth almost sensuous way the mech unconsciously moved sometimes. Jazz simply had that natural ability to draw mechs to him and that talent drew in crowds each night to the Tempered Turbine.

When Cranktop had been recalled, Griphaul had been concerned for Jazz when the mech had taken it hard. He knew that the two had been close friends and had tried to reach out to the grieving mech but Jazz hadn't allowed it. Griphaul kept a close optic on the silver mech and Jazz had been withdrawn and surly at first, but had quickly bounced back with a surprising amount of vigour. He seemed happier than he ever had been.

Griphaul had his suspicions; he was no idiot. He had more than his share of friends turning to Zyrgonate as a medication to life. It wasn't as if he disapproved; everybot deserved a little bit of happiness, even if it was artificially induced. In a way, he was glad. He had seen the mask of contentment that Jazz wore slip a few times, revealing an angry mech with dark thoughts. He had even been tempted a few times to slip the mech some Zyrgonate if he hadn't had already known Jazz's strange aversion towards the drug. But it seemed whatever previous hesitance was gone and Jazz was finally at peace with himself and with his place in the community.

As if sensing a gaze on him, Jazz suddenly looked up and locked optics with him. Jazz smiled cheerily and tilted his helm to the side in greeting. Griphaul returned the smile and nodded. The stage lights on top of Jazz suddenly came on and Griphaul caught the telltale puncture marks of a pneumatic gun on Jazz's neck cabling. Griphaul felt satisfied as he turned back to his neglected accounts.

Jazz continued with his own work, putting finishing touches to his tracks and rearranging his set list until he was satisfied. He hadn't felt this invested or enthusiastic about his work in a long time. He started humming, bobbing his head along to the rhythm and melody in his processors. Absently, he checked his subspace and felt reassured when he saw that the pneumatic gun was among the contents. But that reassurance was tempered somewhat by the slight anxiety that he only had half a unit remaining in the vial. He would need to get more.

Still, that half a unit was enough to get him through the night.

When he was done with his performance, he bowed to the applauding crowd and hopped off the stage. He ducked around the crowded tables and then politely extricated himself from the conversation a customer wanted to have with him.

Jazz was grinning as he jogged over to Griphaul, riding on the exhilaration of both the Zyrgonate in his systems and the successful debut of his new tracks.

'Hey, Griphaul.'

His employer nodded in greeting. 'Jazz. Anything I can help you with?'

'I really need a favour; do ya think ya can give me a credit advance this orn? I kinda need it for somethin'.'

The other mech shrugged, 'Sure, why not?' Griphaul dug out a credit chip and passed it over to Jazz.

'Thanks, mech!' Jazz said, subspacing the chip and turning away.

'And, Jazz...' Griphaul called out towards the retreating silver mech. Jazz half-turned to face his employer. 'Good job, tonight. I haven't heard stuff like that from you in vorns.'

Jazz smiled and waved the compliment away with a modest flap of his servo. He turned and exited the crowded establishment. He stood outside the doors, cycling in the cool night cycle air into his systems. Both of Cybertron's moons were shining bright, bathing his silver plating.

The ragged edges of his thought processes was smoothed by the Zyrgonate circling his lines, and if he allowed it, he could sink into a half-dream state where he could be content to just stare at the moons for joors. A new musical composition was already taking form in his processor, strings of harmonies weaving together, pulsing to the same beat as his spark.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself out of the trance and checked his chronometer. He folded himself into his alt mode and headed off. He kept his positioning systems online this time, referring to it from time to time until he found himself back near the same alley where he had first met Undercut.

There were some unsavoury type of mechs milling about in the street and Jazz felt the prickle of sensors as they swept appraisingly over him. Cautiously, he transformed. The vibroblade in his subspace reassured him a little but Jazz knew it would be an inadequate means of protection if two or more mechs decided he was worth harassing. Jazz edged to the alley where he had made the deal several cycles ago and was relieved to find that the red mech was there. Undercut was perched on the edge of an empty crate, a vibroblade in hand and seemed to be picking at the joints in his other servo with it.

'Undercut,' Jazz greeted, moving into the smaller alleyway. He didn't get much further in because he was suddenly blocked by a growling golden coloured mass in his way.

'Jazz!' The red mech seemed surprised to see him again and he jumped to his pedes. 'Uppercut, it's fine. He's a friend.'

Jazz stared apprehensively at the glowering expression on the golden mech's faceplate. Uppercut's engine was snarling menacingly and he gave one more aggressive rev before backing off to the side, narrowed blue optics tracking Jazz's every move.

For his part, Undercut looked pleased to see him, beckoning him closer. Jazz approached, giving Uppercut a wide berth.

Undercut had seated himself onto the empty crate again, and he patted the crate opposite him invitingly. 'C'mon! Have a seat. What can I do you for?'

Jazz settled himself gingerly onto the surface. He tried to ignore it when the golden mech situated himself just behind him. He could feel the warm air from the mech's systems venting over his neck.

'I need some more...' Jazz murmured softly, fidgeting on his seat and feeling incredibly self-conscious.

'More what?' the other mech asked, looking puzzled.

Uppercut vented onto the back of his neck again and Jazz clamped a servo over his neck struts. He half-turned to glare back at the mech, feeling exasperated. 'For the love Primus, would you stop that?' he demanded. His gaze snapped back to Undercut and he glowered at the red mech. 'And I need more Zyrgonate!'

Undercut waved his servos placatingly at him, 'Chill, mech! No need to yell. You're strung so tight no wonder you snapped. How much do you need? A unit?'

Jazz shook his head, forcing himself to relax. 'Nah, I'm gonna need at least three.'

Undercut whistled, even as he unsubspaced three vials of the substance. 'Three? On top of the two you already have? Are you having some sort of a Z-party?'

'Nah, I finished the two already. I need this for the next orn or two.'

Undercut paused, the vials in his servo clinking together as he stared disbelievingly at the mech opposite him.

'What?' he exclaimed. 'You burned through the two I gave you already? Did you max out the dosages all the time or what?'

Jazz's expression turned mulish. 'It's none of yer concern. And anyway, it's good for yer business, ain't it?' He held his servo out expectantly.

The red mech dropped the vials into his palm somewhat reluctantly. 'Well, yeah. But you are a newbie at this. Didn't expect that, is all.'

Jazz didn't see him exchange a glance with Uppercut, too busy subspacing the vials and pulling out a credit chip.

'How much?'

'Huh? Oh, well, since you're a repeat customer...' Undercut gave him the price, which was less than what Jazz was prepared to pay. He didn't question the mech's generosity though.

Jazz punched in the required credits and handed it over to the mech, who subspaced it without even checking the amount.

Jazz stood to leave, and then paused. 'Can I have yer commline frequency? Then I can call ya the next time before I drop by.' He eyed Uppercut warily. The mech merely glowered back silently.

'Heh, sure...' Undercut said hesitantly.

The silver mech received a ping and accepted it, adding the contact information to his contact list.

'See ya, Undercut.'

The red mech stared after the retreating figure. Then he sagged into his seat and rubbed a servo over his faceplate.

'Frag.'

The other mech revved his engine in agitation and settled himself on the other crate, folding his arms over his chassis.

'I shouldn't have sold him the Zyrgonate just now,' Undercut muttered.

'You shouldn't have sold it to him the first time,' Uppercut corrected, glaring at him.

Undercut shrugged helplessly. 'I know that _now_. How would I know he'd be hooked on the stuff? And he looked like he really needed it the last time.'

The two subsided into silence for a few breems and then Undercut snorted, 'What was with you anyway, breathing down the mech's neck?'

Uppercut scowled and shifted in his seat. 'Tried to make him uncomfortable so that he'd leave. Stupid slagger was stubborn.'

Undercut chortled. 'I half thought your ventilating systems had shorted out!'

The golden mech made a face. 'What are you going to do? He has your commline now.'

'Oh yeah... Frag.'

Uppercut rolled his optics. 'I _told_ you this whole thing was a bad idea, that it was a _stupid_ idea-'

'Hey!' the other mech protested. 'But you're here helping me anyway.'

The other mech placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, 'Exactly. I'm here helping you because I can't have you being an idiot by yourself; I have to make sure you don't get yourself slagged.'

The red mech grinned. 'I knew you loved me, Sunny.'

The other mech huffed and settled back. 'I'm only doing it because you're my brother... and don't call me that.'

* * *

><p>Soundwave had to resist the urge to pace the length of the shuttle transport. His fuel tanks were less than half full and he had to preserve his energy. An alert pinged in his HUD and he felt his spark constrict with worry. He ran several internal scans in quick succession over the precious cargo within his chest compartment.<p>

He searched with his spark for the thin tread that was the bond with his youngest symbiote, seeking to comfort and reassure Frenzy. Soundwave ruthlessly squashed the despair at finding that the bond was weakening even further. Desperately he tried to envelope the dying spark with his own strength, coaxing it to remain ignited. He could feel Rumble's own anxiousness, and he spared a moment to soothe the other symbiote.

::Boss?:: Rumble asked quietly over their commlines. ::Is Frenzy going to make it?::

Another wave of despair crushed Soundwave's spark, but he blocked the emotion from spreading to his symbiotes.

::Yes.:: He promised resolutely, even if he wasn't entirely certain anymore. ::We are nearly there. A few more breems.::

He felt some of the tension in Rumble's spark ease. ::Good.:: was all Rumbled replied and Soundwave felt the symbiote shift all his attention to his sibling.

Soundwave bowed his helm and clenched his fist, shaken by Rumble's faith. Behind that one word, Soundwave heard the absolute trust of Rumble; he was entrusting his life and that of his own brother to the larger mech. _Soundwave never lies_, was the sentiment behind it, and Soundwave had no intention of failing his symbiotes.

When the shuttled docked, he was the first mech out of the portals. He transformed into his alt mode the moment his pedes touched the ground and accelerated down the streets.

::Hold on, Frenzy:: he coaxed over the private commline, even though he knew the little symbiote's communication systems had already failed and that he could not hear him. He sent another pulse of reassurance along their bond and felt the little spark respond weakly. Soundwave pushed himself to go even faster when he saw that Frenzy's ventilating system had started to give out.

Soundwave arrived at the MechTech headquarters and he transformed even as he skidded to a halt. His own momentum made him stagger as he tried to regain his balance, but he was more focused on Frenzy. The compartment on his chest opened and Rumble sprang out immediately. Gingerly, Soundwave reached in to pull Frenzy out. The young symbiote was limp in his servos, his helm was lolling. Soundwave would hear the tiny cooling fans in the small frame clicking weakly, ineffectually trying to restart their rotations.

Soundwave shifted Frenzy into one servo and transformed the other into a myriad of maintenance tools. Working as quickly as he could, he released the tiny catches on Frenzy's chest plating and pulled it off. Frenzy's steadily building temperature dropped a little but it wasn't nearly enough. Thinking quickly, Soundwave rerouted some of his own internal systems and forcibly dropped his internal temperature to far below optimum operating levels. Cradling Frenzy to his chassis, Soundwave opened his own vents and carefully vented cold air across the small frame.

Several warnings popped up in his HUD, warning of an imminent system malfunction if he continued operating at such low internal temperatures. Already, he could feel some of the energon in his lines crystallising, scraping along the inner linings of his circulatory systems. But he did not relent, scanning Frenzy until the little mech's temperature dropped comfortably within the normal range.

Then he ran some careful calculations and adjusted his systems. He would still have to run his own systems at below comfortable temperature levels, but as long as he kept Frenzy close to his vents, he could keep Frenzy sufficiently cooled.

Slowly, Soundwave straightened from his crouch and met the frightened gaze of Rumble. Briefly, Soundwave reached out through their bond to sooth the symbiote. Rumble trembled at his spot, and then lunged forward to latch himself onto Soundwave's pede. His little servos clung desperately to Soundwave, seeking comfort. Then with practiced familiarity, the small symbiote scaled his carrier's frame. Soundwave slid open his compartment accommodatingly and Rumble slipped inside.

Cradling Frenzy to his chassis and feeling Rumble safe within his compartment, Soundwave hurried into the component loan headquarters. He had made an appointment and if he did not hurry, he would be late.

Soundwave was directed to the officer who would handle his case. The mech was at his desk, busy entering data into the console in front of him. Shifting his weight awkwardly on his pedes, Soundwave waited to be acknowledged by the Gamma mech.

At last, the mech paused in his typing and his optics flicked over to him. Soundwave saw the frown on the mech's faceplate when his gaze brushed over Frenzy.

'Have a seat...' the mech trailed off, raising a brow plate inquiringly.

'Soundwave,' Soundwave supplied, slipping gratefully into the seat. Carefully, he arranged Frenzy on his lap so that the condensation dripping from his own vents would not fall into the symbiote's exposed protoform.

The officer said nothing, turning instead to pull up relevant client files on his console.

Soundwave waited, forcing himself to be patient as the mech scrolled leisurely through the information. It would not do to upset the loan officer. Soundwave read the mech's designation that was engraved onto the front of the desk; Highdrive.

Finally Highdrive turned his attention towards his client.

'I do not understand; why did you insist on making the journey from Stanix? Surely the Stanix office could have handled your case.'

Soundwave shook his helm, 'I was-s unsatisfied with t-the offer there. T-They could not r-resolve my situation.'

Highdrive's gaze flicked briefly to the symbiote cradled protectively in Soundwave's lap and sighed. He turned to skim through the client data on the screens again, and then ran some credit calculations.

'I'm sorry, but you've wasted your time getting here; I cannot offer you anything different from what Pullshock has offered you at Stanix.'

Soundwave stilled in his seat, stunned. He had not considered this outcome. When the MechTech office in Stanix had refused his request, he had hastened to Cybertron's capital to appeal to the headquarters there. Surely the mech's there would be more understanding, more compassionate?

He struggled to speak and had to clear his vocaliser several times before the malfunctioning hardware booted up. 'Why?' he croaked. The word came out staticy and rough.

'We can't offer your symbiote the full systems rehaul that you're asking for; it's simply not feasible...' Highdrive trailed off, seeing the look of distress on the other mech's faceplate. He hurried on, 'But for your own case, MechTech can offer you an upgrade for your current vocal module. Pullshock had put in a note that you might need to have that replaced. I noticed that you seem to have some difficulties with it?' The mech made the last sentence sound like a question.

Soundwave shook his helm. 'I am more concern-ed f-for my symbiote-e,' he forced out through his vocaliser. Every word he spoke grated against the raw gears in the module, as if he had consumed shards of glass. 'His systems are de-de-generating-g. I need –' his vocaliser shorted out, but this time it was because of his emotions, and not the cybonix. Soundwave struggled with his desperation for a few astroseconds, and then continued. '_He_ needs the parts-s.'

'I am really sorry, but I can't do that; it's against company policy.'

Soundwave swayed in his seat, unable to accept the situation. Rumble was cautiously feeling over their bond, trying to determine Soundwave's emotions. The carrier clamped down tighter on the blocks he had placed on the bonds.

_If I lose Frenzy, I will lose Rumble_.

'So?' Highdrive shrugged impatiently and Soundwave realised he had spoken aloud. 'The Department of PCP will just give you another two Epsilons. You host mechs aren't supposed to get too attached to your symbiotes anyway; they never last very long.'

Soundwave's first instinct was to strike the mech for his callous comment but he wrestled that impulse down. Other mechs did not understand the strong bonds that could form between symbiotes and their carriers.

The Department of Population, Conditioning and Programming took young sparks from the AllSpark and through a process called Intercision, the healthy newspark was stressed until it shattered. The small spark shards were gathered up and inserted into small frames. Intercision resulted in glitchy mechs with weak sparks, a condition that made them dependant on host individuals. The uneven shattering of the newspark meant that if an Epsilon was lucky, he had larger portion of the original spark and was thus stronger; he would be able to survive even if the other Epsilons that shared his spark origins deactivated. Epsilons with the smaller spark shards were often presented in pairs to Delta host mechs, to reduce the strain of spark fragmentation and increasing their survival rates.

Soundwave's own spark had supplemented the growth of his symbiotes, lending them his strength. He had formed close bonds with each of them, knitting them into a close unit.

He could not lose his two youngest members.

He hurriedly dug through his data archives and brought up logs and service performance indexes. He compiled them as quickly as he could into a data packet and sent it to Highdrive, who accepted the file transfer with a befuddled look.

'Rumble and Frenzy's-s performance in my unit-t has been exemplar; it will be more-e effective to receive a c-component loan and-d retain both symbiotes on my t-t-team instead of training a-another replacement pair. The t-training of new symbiotes w-will require more resources than-'

Highdrive interrupted him firmly. 'There is really no point in you trying to convince me, Soundwave. I am bound by strict company policies and I simply cannot sign off on a full system loan for your symbiote. But as I was proposing for your own case, I can offer you the new state of the art vocaliser module which comes in seven different designs, capable of producing the entire range of frequencies from the subsonic to the supersonic and is guaranteed to last you at least the next forty vorns.'

Soundwave could do nothing but stare at the mech's expectant expression, feeling despair crushing him. Then, because he didn't know what else to say, he dully asked, 'How much will that cost me?'

Highdrive seemed to perk up with renewed vigour. He entered a figure into a datapad and slid it over to Soundwave. Soundwave stared at the figure numbly. He could probably rehaul both Rumble and Frenzy's entire systems for that price.

'I know the price might seem a lot, but it really is a great investment, considering your position as a communications expert.'

Soundwave sat quietly in his seat with Frenzy lying limply across his lap. The little symbiote had already slipped into stasis. He stroked the small helm gently. Despite the cool air from Soundwave's vents bathing Frenzy, the symbiote's systems were starting to overheat again.

He considered the datapad on the table. Highdrive had no interest in the preservation of the lives of his symbiotes, Soundwave knew. He was more interested in making commission from his sales.

Soundwave had already lost symbiotes due to unsympathetic MechTech loan officers; Slugfest, Overkill, Squawktalk and Beastbox... He was not willing to lose anymore. And he did not think his spark could survive the crushing agony of grief.

He leaned forward and tapped the datapad, his gaze on the other mech's face.

'I am w-willing to pay t-t-this price for an entry level-l vocaliser,' he said, with steely determination in his voice.

Highdrive gaped at him in astonishment. 'W-w-what?' the mech stammered, sounding as if his vocaliser was infected by cybonix too.

'But y-you will include with t-this offer a complimentary full system-m rehaul for my symbiote.'

Soundwave stared pointedly at the other mech. Highdrive shuttered his optics a few times and then recovered. He retrieved the datapad and made a few calculations, determining the commission he would get from this loan. He placed the datapad down and tapped the end of his stylus thoughtfully against his lipplate. Again, his gaze drifted to the symbiote on Soundwave's lap, but this time the expression on his faceplate was speculative. He placed his stylus down carefully on the table and folded his servos together.

He spoke slowly and carefully, his gaze intent on Soundwave's faceplate. 'Soundwave, the entry level vocaliser will be a tremendous downgrade to your current one. It will severely limit your vocal intonations as well as your inflections. The speed of transfer and conversion from data input to audio output will also be significantly reduced. Your communication skills will be greatly hampered and you will find it to be highly difficult to verbalise long sentences... Do you understand this?'

A glimmer of hope bloomed in Soundwave's chassis; Highdrive was considering his solution. He nodded. 'Yes.'

Highdrive vented and then pushed the datapad once more over to Soundwave. Carefully, Soundwave read over the terms and conditions of his component loan, spark soaring with relief when he saw that Frenzy would receive a "complimentary" full system rehaul.

He looked up at the loan officer. 'Thank you,' he breathed gratefully.

For a moment, the mech looked uncomfortable. 'As long as you understand the technical specifications of the vocal module you want.'

Soundwave couldn't have cared less about his replacement vocaliser. He would be willing to be mute if it meant Frenzy and Rumble got to live.

Then on the datapad, he scrawled the glyph for his designation.

He handed the datapad back to Highdrive and nodded. 'Acknowledged.'


	4. Things Fall Apart IV

Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews! It really is such a pleasure to read them.

Special thanks to **MoonWallker**, **Krysala**, **Foxbear**, **Sideslip**, **Shunner68**, **JaAm**, and **DemonSurfer**. You guys are my inspiration. I love that everyone appreciated reading about poor Soundwave and his symbiotes. He really cares about his little guys.

This chapter contains references to _Trainspotting_ and _Repo! The Genetic Opera_.

_Pacekeepers – _Traffic enforcers. This is a term I had to come up with seeing as "Enforcers" have a whole different meaning in my universe.

* * *

><p><strong>THINGS FALL APART IV<strong>

The urge to pace away his nervous energy was incredible, but the Seeker forced himself to remain before the great doors of the Senate House. His wings twitched as he waited to be called to enter into the great meeting place. He cast a glance to the two guards standing on both sides of the doors. Their faceplates were stoic, even as their optics watched his every move.

Starscream stared at the doors again, his spark beating fast with trepidation.

He had received the summons two joors ago to appear before the Senate. The two mechs who had delivered the message had immediately escorted him to the Senate House.

Despairingly he remembered the experiment that he had been conducting in his lab before he was interrupted; no doubt the entire experiment had to be scrapped and started again from the very beginning. After three hundred and seventy eight vorns of research and experimentation, he had been sure this was it. He had been so close to isolating the cybonix coding strand.

By the time he returned to his lab, the coding would have yet again mutated. All his previous calculations would be irrelevant now, setting his research back by at least thirteen vorns.

He shifted agitatedly on his pedes, feeling immeasurably frustrated but unable to do anything. A summons from the Senate could not be ignored.

Darkly, he wondered if whatever it was the Senate required was worth all the lives he could have potentially saved.

He started when one of the guards suddenly spoke. 'You may enter now.'

Starscream took a step nearer the great doors and it swung open, admitting him. He strode through, buoyed by the righteous indignation of having his work interrupted at such an untimely manner. His confidence faltered when he found the entire attention of the Senate on him. Slowing to an uncertain shuffle, he made his way to the centre of the circular room.

He glanced about and saw there were two empty seats upon a raised dais, covered in the religious carvings of Primus. The seats were reserved for the Prime and the Lord Protectorate and had been empty for thousands of vorns. The last Prime and Protectorate had given their lives protecting their people and the planet when the Quintessons first invaded Cybertron. When Cybertron had claimed back their freedom, there had been no way to elect another Prime or Lord Protectorate because the Matrix of Leadership was missing.

Now the mechs who held the most power on the planet were the two Consuls who headed the Senate. Alpha-7 and Omega-5 were seated at the foot of the dais, their heavy gaze on the Seeker beneath them.

When Alpha-7 spoke, his voice was a rumbling bass. 'Seeker Starscream, thank you for appearing before us today.'

Starscream swallowed his instinctive bitter retort of his having little choice otherwise. Instead, he offered a bow and replied with as much calm as he could. 'I could not refuse a summons from the Senate.'

He surreptitiously glanced about. The hall was lined with hundreds of senators in their raised seating, each of them staring down at the proceedings in silence. Whatever they had debated and discussed before his arrival, the decision will be the Consuls to deliver.

Starscream did not recognise most of the senators, having had little interest in the realm of politics. The expressions on their faceplates ranged from satisfaction and triumph to confused and disgruntled. Whatever the topic of debate had been, it seemed that the senate had been divided in their views.

A wave of trepidation rose within Starscream and he found himself suddenly wishing he had paid closer attention to current politics. He could not imagine a reason for his presence before the Senate.

'Seeker, the Senate is concerned that we have been remiss in some of the traditional aspects of our Cybertronian culture, particularly the lack of support towards the sacred duties of the Seekers, as charged by Nexus Prime.'

Starscream stared at the Consul, momentarily stunned speechless. Out of all the probable reasons he was called here this cycle, Starscream had not thought it would be because of Nexus Prime's ancient command to the Seekers he created.

Alpha-7 and Omega-5 seemed to be waiting expectantly for a reply. Starscream roused himself from his stupor.

'Esteemed Consuls and respected members of the Senate,' he began uncertainly. 'Thank you for the acknowledgment of the Seeker's Burden. However, I am hardly a representative of Vos and cannot speak with any authority for the Seeker state. I am merely a scientist at the Iacon Academy of Science and Technology.'

'We are aware of your position at the Academy, Seeker,' rumbled Omega-5. 'You have been summoned here because you were selected to answer to Nexus Prime's decree. Your mission, Seeker, is to search for Rarefied Energon from the unchartered sectors of quadrant M61-Tetra-4.'

Starscream staggered back a few steps as if struck. He gaped at the Consuls in disbelief. 'I can't-,' he protested weakly. 'I'm not-'

'Do you refuse your sparked duty, _Seeker_?' growled Alpha-7, optics glinting. He placed a heavy emphasis on the last word.

Starscream quailed. 'Consuls, please,' he tried again, his voice wavering. 'The Elite Vosian Trine should be consulted in this matter; they are traditionally the ones to embark on such expeditions. I have no trine and I am not an Elite Seeker.' He spread his arms helplessly. 'I am just a scientist!'

'Why is precisely why you are the perfect candidate; too long has the Seeker Burden been thrust upon the Seeker Elite. They may be the ones to understand the creed of Nexus Prime best, but they have yet anything to show for it. You are still yet a _Seeker_ because they have failed to find what they have been charged to locate.

'You are a scientist, as you have repeatedly told us. Your performance index at the Academy has been remarkable and character profile states that you are a persistent individual. These are worthy qualities. You can provide fresh perspectives on an age old quandary.'

Starscream's processors raced. He knew something was not right about the situation. Cybertron had not bothered with the Seeker Burden for vorns, since even before the Quintessons came. So why start now?

Which was not to say that the Seeker Burden was an unimportant task. Quite the opposite; it was the most sacred of all Cybertronian duties and it fell to the Seekers to complete it. Seekers were different from other Cybertronians and they could trace their heritage directly to one of the original Thirteen Primes, Nexus Prime.

Nexus Prime was the Guardian of Rarefied Energon. Rarefied Energon is the substance that sustained both Primus and Unicron. During the war between the two, Primus ordered Nexus Prime to conceal the Rarefied Energon, hoping to starve and weaken his opponent. Nexus Prime had divided himself into five separate components, hiding the energon across the galaxies. Then one of his brother Primes betrayed them and had tried to destroy Nexus. Megatronus Prime had managed to destroy two of Nexus Primes's components before Unicron was defeated and the Fallen Prime banished. But the location of the hidden Rarefied Energon could only be revealed if all five of Nexus Prime's components were functioning. Primus eventually succumbed to the lack of the energon and even though he forgave Nexus Prime for failing him, the Prime vowed to seek what he had misplaced with his three remaining components, who became the first Seeker trine. It was why Seekers always naturally formed trines and why they were so restless on the ground; they were bound by Nexus Prime's pledge.

What had seemed to be a sacred calling soon became something of a curse; the Seekers who were sent on the quest almost never came back and those few that did were missing a member or two of their trine. Seekers became wary of the seemingly suicidal mission. Elite Seekers were those who had spent hundreds of vorns studying Nexus Prime's records, calculating and attempting to chart possible sectors in the galaxy for the hidden Rarefied Energon before embarking on the task. No Elite Seeker had ever returned to Cybertron. The title of "Elite" became just that; a title, as the fervour towards the duty fell away.

Starscream hesitated again; knowing to outright refuse the Seeker Burden would be seen as nothing less than blasphemous. 'I do not have a trine,' he said finally, grasping at the last flimsy objection he had.

Omega-5 smiled slowly as he leaned forward in his seat and Starscream felt the sudden flash of terrible understanding. He felt his spark clench in horror even before the Consul spoke his next words.

'Yours is the most unorthodox of all Seeker expeditions yet. One more unconventional detail would be that your partner would be not a Seeker, but a colleague in the sciences; Skyfire. May Primus bless you and Nexus Prime guide you.'

Starscream shrieked in wordless anger, lunging to attack the Consul. Senate guards were immediately upon him, pressing him into the ground in an attempt to subdue him. He did not feel it when one of his wings was twisted painfully from its socket. The guards dragged him out even as he struggled wildly. Starscream was snarling incoherently in rage. For the briefest of moments, he managed to get free of the servos holding him. But before he could attack the Consuls, one of the guards hit him hard enough at the back of his helm that he felt something snap in his processor. Starscream went down heavily, optics fritzing. His motor coordination routines were rebooting so he found himself unable to move.

The place was in an uproar; the senators were on their pedes, shouting. Starscream could only stare at the Consuls, hearing everything fade into a dull roar. Alpha-7 was looking at him, the expression on his faceplate was hard. Starscream saw the Consul's mouthplates move; _Till All are One._

Starscream keened weakly, shutting his optics. Rough servos grabbed him and dragged him away.

He knew why the Senate had summoned him now. He cursed himself for being so naive. He should have paid better attention to politics. If he did, he might have known how many enemies he had made with his research into a cure for cybonix, and how many of those enemies were senators who had large investments with MechTech. And Skyfire! Poor Skyfire; his greatest misfortune was to be friends with someone like Starscream. It didn't matter that Starscream had not shared the details of his research with the gentle shuttle; Skyfire was guilty by association.

Alpha-7's faceplate rose in his processor.

_Till All are One_ – Farewell, Seeker. We don't expect either of you to ever return alive.

* * *

><p>She threw her weight to the side, lowering her centre of gravity as she took the sharp turn along the winding road. Her wheels skidded and for a brief moment, she thought she might lose control and crash. Then her wheels caught traction and she rocketed forward. She was ahead, but just barely. She could hear the aggressive snarling of engines behind her.<p>

She wove from side to side, blocking the mech from overtaking her. She wanted to laugh as the mech revved his engines noisily in frustration.

::Is that the best you have?:: she taunted over the commlines. The mech didn't reply, but his engine roared even louder.

She honestly could not recall a time when she had this much fun, the energon and coolant rushing through her lines. It was exhilarating. Her frame was light and streamlined, designed for speed. But the mechs she was competing with were no pushovers. They too were well-designed and had high performance engines within their chassis. Her position at the front of this little race was a hard-won advantage.

The communications tower that represented their finish line was just around the corner and she pushed her systems as hard as she could. The mech behind her feinted to the right and she fell for it, moving to block him. He quickly took the opportunity to move into position next to her.

Frustrated, she spat static at him, trying to manoeuvre to the front again but was unsuccessful. The two were matched for speed. So centred was she on the mech beside her that she failed to notice the other competitor until he was flushed against her other side.

Competitiveness flushed her and she started cursing over the commlines. The two mechs merely laughed at her, matching her speed exactly until they crossed the finish line.

::A three-way tie!:: one of the mech's cried out gleefully.

She transformed immediately and kicked the mech nearest to her.

::Hey!:: he protested and then transformed, the other mech following suit.

Undercut rubbed his shin and pouted while Uppercut held up his servos in mock surrender, grinning widely.

Elita glared at the two. 'Either one of you wins or you let me win. Enough with the ridiculous ties! If we have another "three-way-tie" I'm gonna kick your afts so hard even your faceplates will be dented.'

Undercut gaped at her in astonishment before he broke down in peals of laughter. He had to grasp onto Uppercut for support. Even the usually stoic Uppercut was chuckling, looking amused. She glared at them until her annoyance disappeared and soon she was giggling along with them.

'Whatever happened to femmes being delicate creatures of gentle dispositions?'

She reached out to swat Undercut playfully but he danced out of reach. After a few more moments of playful banter, they scaled up the sides of the communications tower and settled themselves comfortably on the lower deck. Elita wound her arms around the railings and rested her helm on a column. Her pedes swung in lazy circles, dangling off the platform.

Her two companions settled themselves next to her, staring out onto the cityscape of Iacon. The night cycle was going to fall soon.

Elita was still amazed that she got along with the two mechs so well, considering their first meeting orns ago. They seemed friendly enough – well, Undercut was the more sociable of the two but Uppercut soon warmed up and accepted her presence. Despite her initial wariness and misgivings, the two mechs had been nothing but friendly and respectful.

'Here,' said Undercut, unsubspacing and passing her a small cube of high grade energon. He pulled out another two and passed one to Uppercut.

Politely, they waited for her to take a sip from her own cube before partaking in theirs.

Elita's optics widened when she tasted the high grade. It was quite unlike anything she had tasted before. It was sweet, with subtle hints of barium and polonium. She took another sip in wonder. She turned to Undercut.

'Where did you get this?' she demanded, holding the small cube up.

'What?' Undercut looked confused. 'It's mine.'

Elita shook her head. 'No, I know you brought it... I meant where did you _get_ it? I haven't tasted high grade like it before. I love it!'

'Thanks,' he replied, grinning at her.

There was a sharp clang as Uppercut kicked him in the shins.

'Sorry,' he said, glaring at the red mech. 'My hydraulics is a bit temperamental.' He turned to Elita, who raised a brow plate. 'What he means is that these are actually sample cubes. We got them off a friend.'

Undercut grimaced at Uppercut, and then carefully checked for chips in his finishing.

Elita glanced between the cube in her servo and the two mechs before her. 'You stole them, didn't you?' she asked suspiciously.

'No!' they both denied at once. The two exchanged a glance.

'Really, we didn't. These cubes were procured by honest means.'

'Mmm,' Elita hummed with a disbelieving look on her faceplates, but she left it at that. She drank the last dredges of the liquid, wishing there was more. 'Your friend must be good friends with the brewer than.'

Undercut grinned and nodded his helm. 'Oh yes... they are very _close_,' he said conspiratorially, putting an emphasis on the last word.

Elita ignored it when Uppercut kicked the other mech again. She subspaced the empty cube and stood, brushing herself off.

She smiled at them and gave each mech a quick friendly brush with her EM field.

'I better head back.'

'We'll accompany you,' Uppercut offered immediately.

Elita smiled in thanks.

The three of them made their way leisurely back into the city. As per her request, a street away from the Towers, her companions slowed and pulled into the curb. They flashed their lights at her. Elita slowed to a stop as well.

::Thank you.:: she broadcasted over their common frequency.

::No problem, Ariel.:: Undercut replied.

Elita cringed guiltily when the mech used the false designation she had supplied him. She turned to leave and then hesitated.

::Same time next cycle?:: she asked hopefully.

::Ahh... Sorry, we won't be able to make it. Got something planned.:: said Undercut regretfully.

Elita deflated a little. ::Oh well... next time then?::

::Sure thing!::

::Make sure you bring more of that high grade.:: she teased.

The two mechs chuckled over the frequency.

::As much as you like.::

Elita flicked her lights her them and then continued down the street. The two mechs kept a careful optic on her until she safely entered the Towers.

The golden mech nudged the other. ::Idiot, you almost gave us away.::

The other mech sighed and then pulled away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the street traffic. ::Yeah, I know. This double-life-secret-identity thing is hard!::

Sunstreaker hummed in agreement. ::Come on, we have a lot of errands to do before the showing tomorrow.::

Sunstreaker added some speed and overtook his brother, leading the way. Sideswipe followed complacently behind.

A few streets later, Sideswipe cursed over their commlines.

::I'll catch up with you later, alright?:: Sideswipe said before executing a u-turn.

::Where are you going?:: the golden mech demanded, slowing down.

::It's Jazz. I'm just gonna meet him up. I'll come back as soon as I can.::

Sunstreaker braked to a sudden stop, almost causing a pile up as other mechs driving behind him had to swerve to avoid crashing into his back. He ignored them as they cursed at him.

::You're _not_ going alone. I'm coming with you.::

::Chill, bro. We're meeting outside the Tempered Turbine. It'll be fine.::

Engine growling indecisively, Sunstreaker remained at his spot. Then reluctantly, he spoke ::Fine, but you will check in with me every five breems.::

::The frag? You're not my sparksponsor!::

::Then I'm coming with you.:: Sunstreaker said determinedly, preparing to go after Sideswipe.

::Alright! Primus. I'll check in.::

::Every five breems.:: Sunstreaker warned.

::Yes, fine.:: Sideswipe huffed in irritation.

Sunstreaker started rolling forward, continuing on to his original destination. ::I'll see you later.:: he said and then cut the line before Sideswipe could reply with a snarky comment.

Sideswipe accelerated down the streets, going above the prescribed speed limits. Twice, he received speed infraction warnings from the traffic surveillance network. Both times he pinged back with his designation and caste identity and the notices automatically disappeared.

If he had optics in his current alt mode, Sideswipe would have rolled them as he sent a quick text based message to this twin at the five breem mark: STILL ALIVE.

Barely an astrosecond later the reply came: I KNOW.

It wasn't as if Sunstreaker didn't have good reason to be a paranoid glitch; crime rates were rising and with the added complication of being split-spark twins and everything that entailed, it was just better that they stayed together to watch out for one another. Still, Sideswipe thought his brother to be a tad bit over-protective at times.

His commline beeped and he answered.

::And you better put an end to the drug deals, _Undercut_.:: Sunstreaker reminded, putting an emphasis on the street name Sideswipe had chosen for himself. ::Our dear sparksponsor would find out sooner or later and he will blow a gasket.::

::This will be the last time.:: promised Sideswipe. ::I'm almost there. I'll talk to you later.::

Sideswipe pulled up outside the pub and transformed. He glanced about searchingly. The mech he was looking for was ensconced in the small service lane beside the Tempered Turbine. He double-checked that his caste identity emitter was suppressed before approaching the other mech.

'Where have you been?' Jazz asked, shifting his weight from pede to pede impatiently.

The red mech started, staring at Jazz. He could hardly recognise the mech now. Where the Jazz he had seen a few orns ago was smartly polished with gleaming silver plating, the mech before him now looked scruffy and was badly in need of a good wash and wax. There was a layer of dirt encrusting the other mech's pedes and when Sideswipe took the opportunity to run a surface scan, found that even basic maintenance had been neglected.

'Jazz?' he said uncertainly.

The other mech shuffled forward and Sideswipe could see the tiny tremors that shook the mech's frame.

'Are you alright?' he asked, concerned.

'I am now that yer here,' Jazz said. He reached into his subspace and withdrew a credit chip and thrust it out for Sideswipe to take. 'Here. I just need one more hit before the show. Make it quick; I'm on in a coupla breems.'

'Hey hey!' Sideswipe said, holding up his palms and backing away from the mech who was crowding into his personal space. 'Take it slow, mech.'

'I need a unit now, mech. I ran out joors ago,' Jazz whined pitifully, edging closer desperately.

Uncomfortable now, Sideswipe dodged the other mech and unsubspaced a vial of Zyrgonate. Jazz dropped the credit chip and lunged for the substance but Sideswipe held if aloft with one servo and fended Jazz off with the other.

'Jazz... Jazz!' Sideswipe held off the silver mech with a servo pressed to Jazz's chestplate. Jazz's optics which were locked hungrily onto the vial reluctantly focused onto Sideswipe's faceplates. A shiver ran down Sideswipe's back struts at Jazz's disturbingly vacant expression. Mustering his determination, he spoke slowly to the other mech, 'Jazz, this will be the last time I'll be dealing. Do you hear me? I'm not doing this anymore. Don't try to contact me, mech, not for Zyrgonate.'

'But...' Jazz whispered, staring hollowly, 'Where am I to get more?'

Side shoved the mech away. 'You don't. Get yourself cleaned up, Jazz. You're too dependent on Zyrgonate and it isn't good for you. You have to learn to live your life without it.'

An ugly dark expression twisted the other mech's features and Sideswipe found himself shoved to the ground. The other mech perched on his chest, snarling and trying to pin him down with his smaller frame. After a brief scuffle, Jazz tore the vial from the red mech's grasp and leaped away.

'Life?' Jazz hissed angrily, optics never leaving Sideswipe as he unsubspaced the pneumatic gun and inserted the new cartridge. Sideswipe picked himself off the floor and kept his distance warily.

'Life is no longer a choice for me. I don't wanna live in this fragged up world _knowing_ it's fragged up. I don't want this life; there is no reason for me to live. But who needs reasons when you've got Zyrgonate?'

With that, Jazz flicked the dial on the pneumatic gun with practiced ease. He pressed it against his neck cabling and pulled the trigger. The angry expression on his faceplate smoothed immediately and an astrosecond later, Jazz swayed and groped the wall for balance. He slid down the surface of the wall until he was half-sprawled on the ground.

Sideswipe stared down at the Jazz, feeling chilled to the core. The mech's optics were wide and unseeing and he had a disquietingly happy smile on his lips. Sideswipe didn't notice it at first, but if he strained his audios, he could hear Jazz humming a simple four bar melody, over and over and over again.

Horrified, Sideswipe staggered backwards but was unable to look away. 'I'm sorry, Jazz,' he choked out. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he moaned repeatedly. Unable to bear the horrible sight of Jazz's happy emptiness, Sideswipe turned and fled.

Sunstreaker could sense the emotional turmoil over their bond and immediately demanded what was wrong.

::Primus...Everything, Sunny.:: Sideswipe tone was shaky and he reached out for the other half of his spark for comfort. He compacted the last few breems into a data packet and forwarded it to Sunstreaker.

There was a moment of silence as Sunstreaker took in the information and then the golden twin's presence was enveloping his spark, strong and reassuring. ::I should have been there.:: Sunstreaker murmured regretfully, trying to soothe away Sideswipe's horror.

::I messed up, Sunny. I messed _him_ up. And for what? For _what_?:: he cried. ::It was a _stupid_ plan! It was never going to work.::

The sudden wail of sirens beside him startled Sideswipe and he swerved in surprise, almost clipping the Pacekeeper that had pulled up next to him. Belatedly, he realised that he had received a traffic infraction notice warning him to reduce his speed. He was too caught up with the situation with Jazz, to have deflected such notices with the caste identity ping as he usually did.

Sideswipe slowed a fraction, acknowledging the Pacekeeper's presence before pinging the mech with his designation and caste identity. The mech immediately dropped behind him respectfully and cut off his sirens.

::Apologies, sir.:: the blue and gold Pacekeeper said politely. ::I didn't realise who you were.::

::It is of no consequence.:: Sideswipe replied, surprising himself that he managed to sound so calm. ::My caste identity emitter has been acting up lately and I have not yet the chance to see someone about it.::

:Yes, sir. May I enquire as to where you are going with such haste? I may be of some assistance.::

Sideswipe hesitated a moment but then remembered the terrible emptiness he had seen in Jazz and suddenly just wanted to be with his twin. If he were honest with himself, Sideswipe didn't want to be alone right now either and a Pacekeeper escort was starting to sound like a great idea.

He sent the mech his destination's coordinates and the Pacekeeper carefully pulled in front of Sideswipe. Once in position, the mech switched on his sirens and flashing lights and accelerated. Sideswipe followed the mech as the Pacekeeper cut a straight path through the traffic, the Gamma mechs parting to give way to them both.

Sunstreaker was in his root form, waiting outside the building when the two arrived. Sideswipe thanked the Pacekeeper and then dismissed the mech. The Pacekeeper turned and drove back the way he came. Sideswipe transformed and he didn't realise he was trembling until Sunstreaker placed a servo on his shoulder. Wordlessly, the golden twin pulled the other mech into a hug, pressing their chassis together. Sideswipe clutched desperately at Sunstreaker and eventually the erratic fluctuations of his own spark settled to pulse in the same rhythm as his twin's.

'I've got to fix this,' he muttered when he finally pulled away.

Sunstreaker said nothing as he looked at his brother.

'Fix what?' came a voice behind Sideswipe and the red mech cringed. 'What have you broken this time?'

Sideswipe whirled around and plastered a weak grin on his faceplate. 'Nothing, sparksponsor.'

The older mech regarded him suspiciously before turning his gaze on Sunstreaker, who remained silent. He hummed consideringly and then shook his helm in resignation. 'Let us just go inside,' he said leading the way.

Sideswipe started to follow the mech in but paused when the private commline between Sunstreaker and him chimed.

::I'll help you.::

He smiled gratefully at his twin, feeling some of the guilty anxiety in his spark ease. They will figure something out. They were going to help Jazz out of the mess Sideswipe had accidentally gotten him into.


End file.
